


The Science of Science Fiction

by shinealightonme



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Abed is a shaman, Character Study, Gen, Humor, Science Fiction, Secret Organizations, Star Trek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4264284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinealightonme/pseuds/shinealightonme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, how Britta was dragged kicking and screaming into Star Trek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science of Science Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Calliatra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliatra/gifts).



> Set sort of nebulously in/immediately post third season.

It's one of those ridiculous Greendale fiascos that makes no sense to anyone who's paying the slightest bit of attention, but then again, _Greendale_ , so Britta really shouldn't be surprised.

"Biology doesn't count as a science class!" Annie wails, tossing her backpack onto the table in the study room. The zipper busts, and multicolored flashcards go flying across the length of it, a giant Technicolor vomit of their educational hopes and dreams.

Britta doesn't believe in signs; there's no all-powerful being out there to send them, and the human brain is hardwired to find patterns in anything, not to mention has massive blind spots and confirmation bias. When people think they're getting a "sign", it's just them over-investing in random happenstance, or at most, their subconscious brain reminding them of something their conscious brain has forgotten.

So Britta knows this isn't a sign that the universe wants her to drop out of community college.

It just feels like one.

"Oh my _gosh_ , Annie, that sounds like a _super bummer_!" Jeff fake-squeals. "Maybe we can get the whole Babysitters Club together to think up a nifty solution!"

"You shouldn't be so sarcastic, Jeff," Annie scowls at him. "We all need a science credit to graduate."

"Not me and Troy," Abed pipes in. "That pyrotechnics class we took when we thought we could use real fireworks for the special effects in our Independence Day sequel counts as a science class."

"I've taken a dozen science classes," Pierce says with a hand wave. "I could recommend one, if you like."

"No one wants to hear your recommendations for anything, Pierce," Jeff snaps.

"You know, Jeff, your compulsion to invalidate everyone constantly is really telling," Britta comments.

"Britta," Jeff grits his teeth. "What did I say about attempting to diagnose people in the study group?"

"I don't know," Britta says proudly. "I don't listen to invalidators." She turns to Pierce. "Please, Pierce, tell us your recommendations." _So we know what not to sign up for_ , she adds silently.

"Well, I enjoyed Phrenology," Pierce says. "Women's Lasers was good too -- no, wait, that was called something else...Oh, and Theoretical Eugenics was excellent." He flicks his eyes around the table. "Although I think _certain people_ wouldn't pass." With a complete lack of subtlety, Pierce pointed behind his hand at Shirley and Annie.

By now the study group is well practiced at exclaiming "Pierce!" at the same time.

"Now can I invalidate him?" Jeff asks Britta.

She sighs. "Go for it."

Shirley glares at Pierce is a way that promises he'll have a painful run in with her purse later in the day. Annie just looks away from the course catalog long enough to roll her eyes before turning straight back to it and squeaking.

"Oh! Look at this," Annie says. "The Science of Science Fiction. That could be fun."

"How does watching movies count as science but an actual class with actual lab section doesn't?" Shirley asks.

"Because it's Greendale," Jeff says. "Look, you're putting way too much work into this. Just petition the office to cross-count credits from a class you've already taken."

"Are you actually that sleazy?" Britta asks him.

"I prefer to think of it as being efficient," Jeff says. "For example, while you've all been squabbling, I already texted the Dean to count my billiards class as science."

"That shouldn't even have counted as physical education," Annie scoffs. "Now you're trying to pretend it was science, too?"

"Of course," Jeff smiles his getting-away-with-something smile, which was really his only smile, besides his something-bad-happening-to-someone-else smile. "You seen, Annie, pool requires a fine understanding of geometry and physics -- "

"Ugh, can it, Winger," Britta says, and mimes placing something over her ears. "I have my smug-cancelling headphones on." That's maybe a bit much, even as puns go, but then again, it's a bit much, even by Jeff's standards, to pretend that he's getting by on brains or skill or anything except the Dean's poor taste in men.

"It looks like the course load is pretty light," Annie says hopefully. "Classroom viewings. That shouldn't be too hard to add on top of our current course load. And it might be kind of fun. What do you think?"

Nobody exactly said, 'eh', but it kind of oozed out into the room anyway.

"Troy? Abed?" Annie adds, a little pointedly. "Come on, getting a credit for watching TV, doesn't that sound cool?"

"Pass," Abed answers for both of them, though Troy has a little flutter of disappointment. "That's one of Professor Cumberbatch's classes."

"Is he a bad teacher?" Shirley asked.

Abed shrugged. "I liked Professor Montalbán better. Besides, Cumberbatch is in half the film/TV classes. Got a real overexposure problem going."

Well, that tells them all of nothing; Abed's priorities are, at most, tangential to Britta's. His recommendation could mean anything or nothing.

Britta looks across the room at Annie and Shirley, and sees the same sort of thoughts on their skeptical faces.

So, a little tentatively, Britta asks, "You want to take Science of Science Fiction with me?"

After all, how bad could it be?

-

The first day of class, Britta was already having her doubts; the beginning of anything was always the worst part, except for maybe the middle, or the end, and it was tempting to just drop now and see if she could wheedle and charm the office into counting that semester of Feline Media Studies as a science credit. There were pressing scientific questions in some of those cat videos, although mostly of the "how the hell did that cat jump that far?" sort.

It didn't help at all, that Annie was determinedly optimistic about the class. Annie was wondering, aloud, if they would cover any of the Inspector Spacetime technologies she had seen Troy and Abed make cardboard knockoffs of (given Britta's extremely short experience as an Inspector Spacetime viewer, she had to wonder if cardboard knockoffs wouldn't be better than some of the original props).

Britta expected Shirley to be as lost among this crowd of wordy-t-shirt-wearing sci-fi nerds as she was, but that was shot down when Shirley complimented the girl in the row in front of them on the t-shirt she was wearing.

"How do you know who Bubba Fett is?" Britta muttered. It comes out a little more bitter than was really called for. She's been counting on one other person being as lost as she was in this class; so sue her.

Shirley raises an eyebrow, like she's thinking of taking Britta up on that silent offer of litigation. "Elijah and Jordan discovered _Star Wars_ last year," she says. "It's been nonstop tantrums over Lego sets ever since. You learn a Tydirium shuttle from a Naboo fighter real quick when you're getting hollered at about them for thirty minutes around the Target while everyone's looking at you like you're the worst mother of all time."

Multiple choice pop quiz, psychologist-in-training: Do you (a) as an activist, rage against the shiny blocks that are being used to indoctrinate children into rampant consumerism; (b) as a childless woman, give advice to a mother about how to handle temper-tantrums; (c) as a sci-fi neophyte, ask for advice about Star Wars, which you may very well be graded on in the near future?

"I wonder if we'll cover Star Wars in this class!" Britta enthuses. "That could be cool. What do you like about it?"

Shirley's face brightened up. Ding ding ding -- (c) for the win. Always pick (c), duh-doy.

"Oh, it's all about having faith in a higher power. It's a lovely message for the children."

"Great!" Britta's enthusiasm is rather strained at this. "Though, you know, it'd be good if we also...don't...watch that. So you can see new things!"

Shirley's giving her the raised eyebrow again, but just then, the professor comes in and the side-chatter falls away.

Britta tries to remember his name. Something long and ridiculous sounding.

"Good morning, class," he begins.

Britta sneaks a look at her watch. It's 2:30. She wonders if this is part of the class, like an "ooooh, it's the future" kind of thing.

Hell, it's Greendale. Professor Cumberbund there was probably out until 3 a.m. drinking, fell asleep in his car, and has no idea what time it is. She'd had a professor who taught her philosophy class on accident for half the semester, thinking it was his economics lecture. It took half a semester for anyone to realize because the philosophy professor just never showed up, period. Britta _still_ confuses cogito ergo sum with caeteris paribus.

"Before we can begin," and crap, Professor Cuddlebear has been talking while Britta's spaced out. At least it doesn't sound like she missed anything; "I'll need you all to take a diagnostic test, to get a feel for where you are with the material. That way you, and I, will know what you have to improve one."

Britta drops her pen at the sheer horror of the situation.

That doesn't really seem to convey her writhing sense of betrayal, shock, and fear, when all the pen does is make a little _dink_ noise, but it's the best she can do without screaming and running out of the classroom.

A test. On the first day.

Absolutely no one else seems worried, though, even as Professor Cucumber hands out multiple page quizzes.

Britta holds her breath, racks her brains for every last detail she can remember from decade old high school classes, then squints optimistically at the test.

Then she lets out her breath and stares at the paper in naked confusion.

_Whose soul is described as being "the most human"?_

_What is the Picard Maneuver?_

_Which of the following is not a Rule of Acquisition?_

It goes on and on like that, over a dozen pages. It all makes just enough sense to Britta that she can tell none of it is actually science related. There's nothing about molecules or cells or, or the _periodic table_ , which she remembers being the bane of her existence for two months when she was fifteen. She almost wishes there _were_ ; she thinks she's still got some of the Noble Gases rattling around in her brain somewhere. This is just...gibberish.

The one thing she can be thankful for; all of the gibberish questions are multiple choice.

With a mental shrug, Britta starts circling answers at random, leaning rather heavily toward the (c) answers.

-

"That was...weird. Right?"

Annie's latches onto Britta and Shirley before they're half out the door, like Professor Humblebrag can't still hear them from five feet away.

"It's just the first day." Britta tries for her most disaffected tone of voice. In actual fact, it bothers the hell out of her that the whole thing might as well have been in another language, but she's trying not to think about how she finished the quiz in two minutes and spent the rest of the period fiddling with her pencil while everyone around her actually read it and gave correct answers.

"But none of that was about science. It was all about plot points, and character names, and stupid trivial details," Shirley says.

"Exactly!" Annie points at her. "And every single one of them was about Star Trek. I mean, I think. I didn't recognize all of them, but most of them definitely were. But according to the course catalogue, we're supposed to be doing a huge survey of science fiction. So what gives?"

Britta knows that look. It's the Annie's about to go off the rails look. The Annie is focusing way too much on something insignificant look. The Annie won't stop until she gets answers look.

This is already more effort and emotional exhaustion than this class is worth.

"You know what? If it bothers you, _you_ figure it out," Britta tells Annie, and turns abruptly to walk the long way around to the study room, by herself.

"Refusing the call to adventure," Abed says as she walks by, shaking his head and eating a Red Vine.

"We all know how long that usually lasts," Troy says.

Britta snaps, "For the last time, you can't do DVD commentary on people's lives!"

-

The weirdness from the first day eases up, after that, and Britta has the honest and true hope that she'll just get one easy class, with no drama, no antics, and no papers.

The class falls into a pattern, classroom viewings followed by multiple-choice quizzes. Britta yawns her way through _Metropolis_ , Flash Gordon, and The Invisible Man, and never once has to dredge up any of the chemistry knowledge that is probably still on the fringes of her mind somewhere. In fact, between the lack of take home work and the fact that Professor Cookiedough is way too busy (Abed was not kidding -- the guy's in practically ever film/TV class on offer) to spend much time "lecturing" or "grading", and Britta thinks she's found just about the perfect blow off class.

It stands to reason that her friends won't just let something go right for her.

"But doesn't it bother you?" Annie asks, about three weeks into Science of Science Fiction. She's managed to corner Britta in the women's restroom, which is a violation of a sacred womanly trust that Britta doesn't even really _believe_ in, okay, but that doesn't make it less of a violation.

"What bothers me is the fact that we have to take this at all," Britta says. "Remember how we all took an actual science class where we learned actual science facts, and it doesn't count? Frankly, at this point, Greendale owes me."

"But we aren't _learning_ ," Annie says. "I've talked to the professor about maybe introducing some real academic concepts or at least a discussion period, and he just says that it's took late to make any changes to the syllabus. We never even _got_ a syllabus. There has to be some sort of reason behind all of this."

"He's lazy?" Britta guesses, drying her hands on her pants.

Annie sighs. "Oh, Britta, don't you care about your education at all?"

Britta cares. Britta cares too deeply about too many things. Britta has no room to care about one stupid sci-fi class that isn't hurting anybody. "Annie, do you really think I'm going to help you make this class _harder_?"

Annie draws herself up, haughty and stern as a royal nanny. "Fine, I'll do it myself. I really thought I could count on you."

Britta feels good about having shook Annie off for about thirty seconds, and feels crappy about bailing on her for about five minutes.

She should have just gone along with whatever Annie was planning. After all, it's not like there's really some conspiracy about why Professor Cuttlefish's class is easy. Annie just needs something she can use to rationalize to herself that she's taking a Winger-level blow off class.

So Britta trots along in the general direction Annie went, promising herself that she'll _offer_ to help, and she _will_ help, but there won't be anything _to_ help, and soon they'll give up and Britta can offer to treat Annie to spring rolls.

She catches up with Annie outside Professor Coffeecake's office. Annie had apparently recruited Shirley. It makes Britta feel weirdly jealous, though she's not sure if she's jealous that Annie replaced her so quickly or that Shirley was a good enough friend to say yes the first time she was asked for help.

Then Britta doesn't feel jealous anymore, because her friends are _idiots_. Annie is jamming a credit card in the door jamb, whispering something about how it works on TV, and Shirley is waving her off like she's about to try to kick the door down.

"Would you quit it, both of you?" Britta hisses. They jump a mile each. "Don't you think Clumpybutt would notice if he came back and his door was missing?"

"Obviously we would smash everything breakable inside and make it look like a robbery," Annie rolls her eyes.

"And you didn't even set a look out," Britta says. "That's it, I'm officially placing myself in charge of this reconnaissance mission. You two go stand at the ends of the hall and whistle if someone's coming, okay?"

Annie and Shirley both have this look like they're one second away from complaining, so Britta just shoos them off and starts digging in her backpack, really, really intently, so they won't try to talk to her.

It's only partly an act, anyway; she doesn't use her lock picks often and they've managed to slide all the way down under her textbooks and binders and gotten enmeshed in the mulch that is cracker crumbs and eraser bits and sweater fuzz from over the course of the last year. Ew. There's several long hairs wrapped around her hand by the time she pulls out the lock picks, and she's pretty sure half of them aren't hers. She needs to clean this thing out, ASAP. Maybe she can coerce Annie into doing it as payback for breaking into a professor's office, or in the name of study group solidarity, or something.

It takes way less time to pick the lock than it did to get her hands on the lock picks -- typical cheap Greendale has typical cheap locks on their typical cheap doors, and Shirley could totally have kicked this down without breaking a sweat -- and she's done just as Shirley whistles.

Britta signals for Annie and Shirley to run into the office, and then shuts the door behind them all before anyone's the wiser.

"That was _so cool_ ," Annie whispers, after a very long pause for the slow footsteps of Leonard to cross the hall and fade off into the distance. "How'd you learn to pick locks?"

Britta smiles, modestly. "Oh, you know. The old anarchist days." Britta mostly used her skills because the anarchists could never keep track of their damn keys and locksmiths are expensive, but Annie doesn't need to know that, exactly.

"Less chatting, more snooping," Shirley growls. "We want to minimize the time between the committing the crime and leaving the scene, you got that?"

Annie nods and starts opening file drawers, flipping through papers for who _knows_ what. Maybe she thinks she'll find a signed, dated, and certified memo from Copperbottom, explaining his dastardly plot to teach a blow off class for...some sinister reason. Probably Annie, if she had a dastardly plot, _would_ actually sign, date, and certify a memo explaining her motives.

Britta figures she's done her part, though, so she stays at the door. "I'll keep an ear out for Cabbagepatch," she says.

Shirley gives her the nod, and Britta just starts counting down until they all admit there's nothing to find here.

"I found something," Annie says.

Oooooooooof course.

"It's our quizzes, from the first day," Annie says. "The 'diagnostic' quizzes."

"I wonder why he didn't give those back," Shirley says.

"Yeah, especially since he claims it was so _we_ would know where we stood," Annie continues, disgusted. She's just flipped to the back of one of them, and Britta figures that she's mad at herself for getting a less than perfect score on something for once. "Oh, here's Britta's -- "

Britta lunges over and snatches her quiz off the top of the pile. She doesn't need to know how she did, but she really passionately needs Shirley and Annie, and by extension the study group, and by extension the school, not to know how badly she failed another quiz. She shoves it in the pocket of her jacket and takes vicious pride in hearing the paper rip.

"O-kay," Annie says slowly. "Oh, and here's Shirley's." Shirley keeps digging through her own file cabinet, either indifferent to her score or trying to seem less desperate for approval than Annie and Britta. "But -- okay, there's only about twenty of them here. There's at least ten missing."

"Maybe some people dropped," Britta says. "Or maybe he gave some of them back during office hours or something."

"Like anybody ever goes to office hours," Annie says.

Britta looks around at them, standing in the professor's office, but doesn't say anything.

"You said there's ten of them missing?" Shirley asks. "Because I just found a bunch more quizzes over here, and they're all paper-clipped to some flier."

"What's it say?" Annie asks, though even as she asks she's flitting over to peer at the flier over Shirley's shoulder.

Britta presses up closer to the door, like she's concerned with making sure no one catches them and not at all like she's seething. Of _course_ there is a real damn conspiracy, it just _figures_.

"Star Trek Trivia night," Shirley mutters. "At some place called The Warp Core."

"What a waste of time," Annie rolls her eyes.

"Thousand dollar cash prize," Shirley adds.

"What?" Annie and Britta (okay, fine, so she's somewhat interested, if you're going to throw money into it) whisper-yell at the same time.

"What the hell kind of trivia night is that?" Britta demands. "I've never seen anyone offer more than a free round of drinks."

"Uh, I think it's the kind of trivia night that you recruit the biggest nerds from your sci-fi class to help you win," Shirley points out.

"So this whole class is just an excuse to find out who knows a lot about Star Trek?" Annie says, outraged. "No _wonder_ we're not learning any real science!"

"To be fair, I never learned any real science from people who were there just to teach me science, either," Britta points out.

"No," Annie says. "No talking around the point. This is -- an abuse of education, and our trust in our professors, and a waste of everyone's time. We have to put a stop to it!"

"Put a stop to what?" Britta challenges. "How a guy spends his free time? I mean, it sounds awful to me, but if he really wants to spend all night answering questions about -- Jedi and terminators and -- "

"Those aren't even from the same thing," Shirley interrupts, while Annie rifles frantically through the quizzes attached to the trivia flier.

"You know what? I don't care. I'm happy with my ignorance, because you don't get to police my free time either. I don't need Star Trek."

"Britta," Annie looks up at her with big eyes. "We have to stop this. It isn't fair. Look, he wrote on this quiz that he's giving them extra credit if they do trivia with him."

"Do we really need extra credit?" Britta asks. "I've managed to keep my eyes open through most of the viewings, I'm pulling a B, at least."

"But," Annie says, with that little serious-frown she gets when she thinks she's winning an argument. "He's only inviting male students."

Britta sighs. "You aren't going to stop until I care about Star Trek, are you?"

Annie and Shirley shake their heads.

-

Even by Annie's standards, Britta thinks, this is a bit much.

It's been a day since they broke into Professor Cumquat's office, which means that Annie's had less than twenty-four hours to meticulously organize their plan of attack on Star Trek. She never would have known that, though, looking around at the color-coded flash cards pinned in intricate patterns to half a dozen corkboards around her apartment.

"Okay," Annie says, manic zeal shining way too bright on her face for the early hour and the depressing subject matter. "We've got a week until the next trivia match at Warp Core, so it'll be a little tight, but if we follow this schedule, we should be able to cover all of the relevant materials."

"Uh, Annie, speaking as a therapist in training, I don't like to throw around the," Britta makes air-quotes and whispers, " 'crazy' word, but there's about 500 episodes of Star Trek."

"Well, Abed says the chances of them asking anything about _Enterprise_ are so small as to be non-existent. But then Troy said 'never tell me the odds' and they started pretending the garbage disposal was a Sarlacc pit? And now I can't get them to say anything that isn't Star Wars. But! I think we can pretty safely eliminate those 98 episodes."

"That's still like 400 episodes," Britta says. "And I don't know about you two, but I'm starting from a position of having seen zero of them. That is way more ground than we can cover in a week."

"I'm with Britta on this one," Shirley says. "We have real school work to do, too. Can't we just set Abed on this guy? He doesn't like him, anyway, and he's the one who knows how to obsess over a television program."

Annie shakes her head. "Abed says Star Trek is 'too campy and not campy enough at the same time', whatever that means. Besides," she brightens up. "This is our mission, right? We're the ones who have been wronged, and we're going to right that wrong ourselves, with our guts and our brains and our tenacity."

Britta has to remind herself that 'given an easy passing grade' is a wrong that has to be righted.

"We just need to divide and conquer and let righteousness prevail!" Annie finishes. It's the opposite of a Winger motivational speech; she believes everything she's saying, and convinces the listener of none of it.

Or maybe Britta's just brought down by the hefty stack of paper Annie thrusts into her arms.

"Okay. I've split up the episodes so we can cover more ground. Everyone has a mix of Original Series, Next Generation, Deep Space 9, and Voyager..."

The lecture Annie gives them, in preparation for their going off to watch a bunch of outdated television, is far longer than any lecture their actual professor has ever attempted.

-

The week flies by, in that way that weeks always do when Britta is dreading something at the other end of them, and before she can say 'live long and prosper' she's tromping up to the Warp Core in the middle of the night with Annie and Shirley.

She'd expected, from the 'trivia night' designation, that the place would just be a normal bar. Instead, they're in the middle of the industrial sector of town, trying to bribe, bully, or bludgeon their way into one of the sketchier looking warehouses.

"No uniform, no entry."

There's a bouncer. For _Star Trek trivia_. A huge, enormous bouncer, who doesn't budge at Annie's Disney princess pout, or at Shirley's you-better-not-offend-me fake-sweet voice, or at Britta's calling him a fascist.

Okay, name-calling is the lowest form of debate, but come on, she was getting bounced from trivia night, her pride was smarting a little too much to allow for higher discourse.

It didn't help that the guys behind them with the pointy ears got let in, no questions asked.

"I can't believe we got ejected from the Warp Core!" Shirley says.

"Well, we tried," Britta sighs.

"That's it? You're just going to give up?" It's a little creepy how fast Annie can go from sweet-talking to utter contempt, and hello, _somebody_ should really look up 'dissociative disorder'. (That somebody is Britta. She's not sure she's using that term right, and she has an actual midterm in an actual class she actually cares about coming up soon.)

"Yes," Britta says. "That is exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to give up on trying to make my life harder, since trying to make my life harder has gotten, it turns out, too hard to do. If you really want to keep beating your head on a brick wall, there is a literal brick wall right there." She waves.

"Britta," Shirley starts in. "If we give up now, all this work we put in is just wasted."

"So? Have you ever heard of the sunk cost fallacy? I have! It's not the same thing as utilitarian ethics, and also, it means that sometimes you just have to let go even if you've already tried."

"Yeah, you'd know all about that," Annie says snidely.

"Fine," Britta snaps. "Fine, we can just get completely wrapped up in some stupid thing that won't matter anymore by next week. Is that what you want?"

"That's what Star Trek is _about_ ," Annie declares, "that is what I'm _here for_."

"Fine, then."

"Good, then."

"Fine, we'll just go get all dolled up like those wrinkle-heads over there." Britta waves at the next group of trivia nerds, who are being granted _unrestricted access_ to a place she _wants to_ \-- well, okay, is mildly interested in going. That doesn't sting at all.

"Uh, Britta?" Shirley said, and Britta's spine straightens and her hands tuck themselves under her arms without a conscious thought. That was Shirley's _business_ voice. "Those are Klingons."

"I know that," Britta snapped.

"Oh, my, God," Annie shrieked. "Britta, did you even watch any of your episodes?!"

"I watched one, okay?" Britta yelled. "I watched one, and there was a unicorn dog, and I did not come to community college to watch TV shows about unicorn dogs!"

Shirley glowered at her. "If I have to bear witness to the increasingly pathetic courtship rituals of Riker, Bashir, and Paris, instead of having _actual_ courtship rituals with my husband, then I think you can take some time out of your busy pot-brownie-baking schedule to watch a damn TV show."

"I read episode summaries," Britta says. "I skimmed them, anyway. And if skimming Sparknotes is good enough for The American Novel, then it's good enough for John Roddenberry."

Shirley and Annie share a disgusted look.

"Feet?" Annie asks.

"Arms," Shirley says, and before Britta can run they've grabbed her up and dragged her back to the car.

-

It's _her car_ , too, which just makes it really unfair when they toss her in the backseat and drive off to Annie's apartment.

It takes Shirley hardly any time to tie Britta down to the chair in front of the TV screen. Annie flutters about with several kinds of tape -- she toys with duct tape and packing tape before settling on Scotch tape, thankfully -- trying to do up Britta's eyes so she can't shut them.

"I'll watch the damn show, okay?" Britta pleads. The roll of duct tape that close to her eyeballs had been unnerving.

"Sorry, Britta," Shirley says, not sounding sorry at all. "But you had a chance to earn our trust, and you lost it."

She and Annie try to get Star Trek up and running, but they're still switching with the input on the TV when the overhead lights snap on, interrupting them, and sparring Britta's eyes from anything more than a slight drying-out.

"Annie," Abed says, fingers still on the light switch and looking far more grave and important than anyone in cartoon pig pajamas should manage. "What did I say about unauthorized movie re-creations in the living room?"

"No Disney between 1960 and 1990?" Annie offers.

"This isn't a re-creation," Shirley tells him. "This is Britta not doing her homework."

"It's _Clockwork Orange_ ," Abed says.

"And a human rights violation," Britta chimes in.

"Yes," Abed agrees. "Annie, you know that you need to get fake film permits at least 24 hours before a re-creation involving two or more outside parties."

"This is important, okay," Annie tells him. "We only have two weeks before the next Star Trek trivia night, and Britta didn't watch _any_ of her episodes."

Abed sighs. "I didn't want to do this. I told you I didn't want any part of Star Trek."

"Are you going to help us?" Annie squeals.

"Not like you think," Abed says. "I can't fight this battle for you. You three have to win or lose at trivia on your own merits. But I think I can pull off being the mentor figure that helps Britta cross the threshold. Only if you untie her, though. This is an extra layer of weird that we don't need right now."

Shirley and Annie free up Britta's hands. She tears the tape off one her eye, swears, and gently peels it off the other.

"So the problem is, you need to watch Star Trek, but you don't want to," Abed starts.

"I guess," Britta says. She's sort of lost sight of what she wants or needs in any of this.

"There's really no reason for you to avoid Star Trek. It's the Britta of TV shows."

Britta sighs. "I really wish you all would stop using my _name_ like that."

"I don't mean it as an insult," Abed says. From anyone else, this would sound like an excuse. From Abed, it's just a fact. "Star Trek is earnest and cheesy and it tries so hard to be right about everything that sometimes it's just an unwatchable mess. It ends up being good just as often as it is bad, but you can't separate the two because they come from the same place. And while there's definitely sex appeal, if you go to it looking for that for you'll be disappointed, because it's not about that at all."

Britta blinks and lets that all sink in.

"Is that really what I'm -- what Star Trek is like?"

Abed shrugs. "That's what I think. What do I know, I'm just a guy who watches a lot of TV."

"Okay," Britta says. "Okay. I'll give this a shot."

-

Britta pulls out the crumpled, ripped papers from her jacket and smoothes them over. She flips to the last page.

There, in fat red marker, is a 0%, and the words FAILURE -- NO POTENTIAL.

She got a 0% on a multiple-choice quiz. It's almost funny. Britta took a statistics class last year, and she knows that that really shouldn't be possible.

She sticks that to her fridge with a Human Beings magnet and turns on her TV. She can probably manage the first episode or two off Annie's list before she falls asleep.

-

The thing is, Britta doesn't get sci-fi. She'd watched some of Inspector Spacetime, before any of the others had, and her main reaction to it had been _embarrassment_ , for everyone involved in making it. She'd given it to Abed more out of last-ditch mulishness than any real hope that anyone could like it.

Before Inspector Spacetime, it was dozens of movies, about robots, or spaceships, or robots _on_ spaceships, they all just blurred together -- this one she watched because her friend loved it; that one, because it was "subversive" and hey, so is she; this one, because it was on TV at 2 a.m. when all she could think about was what a wreck her life was; that one, because she's been told she wouldn't like it and wanted to prove otherwise. (She couldn't help herself; she didn't like it.)

So really, there's no reason for her to not have fallen asleep during the first endless, draggingly paced episode of Star Trek. Except that she knew Annie and Shirley were counting on her and she had to at least _try_.

And then she was watching it as closely as she could, really trying, eyeing every wooden faced extra and flimsy prop in case it would turn out to be a trivia question, rewinding and putting subtitles on to figure out what the hell those aliens were called (Romulans, it turns out) -- and before she knew it, something weird happened. She got it. She got what was going on. She _felt bad for Spock_. She _knew who Spock was_.

And then, before she knew what was happening, something even weirder happened. She _liked_ it.

-

"Guys," Britta says, falling breathlessly into her chair in the study room, ten minutes after everyone else had arrived. "Did you know that Star Trek is _awesome_?"

Jeff doesn't even look up from his phone to point at Abed. "I don't know what this is, but I blame you."

Abed shrugs. "That's fair."

"You really watched your episodes?" Annie asks, incredulous.

"You really liked them?" Shirley asks, even more incredulous.

"Yes," Britta says. She tries to use her I-have-an-interesting-story-don't-interrupt-me voice, like she does when she has new photos of her cats, but it doesn't work. Come to think of it, it never works for the cat pictures, either.

"No details," Jeff stops her. "One, I have a Constitutional right to not be bored out of my mind. Two, no one cares. Three -- "

"You do not have a Constitutional right to freedom from being bored," Britta snaps.

"You want to argue the Constitution with me?" Jeff challenges her. "I once convinced a jury that the 9th Amendment meant they had to wash my car."

"You're disgusting," Annie tells him.

"Yeah," Britta says, then frowns. "Er -- what is the 9th Amendment?"

"No one knows," Jeff says. "It is a mystery lost to the sands of time -- much like I hope Britta's little..." he waves his hand, expressively meaningless, "...foray into geekdom will soon be. Until then, _no one_ is to mention that television program. Got it?"

Britta tells him, haughtily, "You know, Picard says that the first speech censured chains us all, irrevocably."

There's a long, awkward pause.

"Okay, that was definitely weird," Troy says.

Shirley looks at Annie. "I think we created a monster."

"Yeah, Britta, you're kind of stepping on my toes here," Abed tells her. "Viewing the world through the lens of pop culture, that's really my shtick."

"You know, the principle of IDIC says -- "

"Okay, that's it," Shirley thumps her purse on the table, resoundingly, "We've got to do something for the poor girl."

Annie bites her lip. "After we win Warp Core," she says. "We have to see the mission all the way through. Otherwise Britta's sacrifice is for nothing."

-

"All right," Britta says, dragging Annie and Shirley through the library. "So we've done our recon, and we're working on our research, but there's still a hole in our plan to take down Professor Cobblestone."

"Costumes," Annie sighs. "I was looking at some online, but -- "

"Expensive," Shirley agrees. "And shoddy. I don't see that bouncer letting us in with mass produced uniforms, do you?"

"No," Annie says. "I'm pretty sure I saw a Vulcan there who had his pointy eyebrows tattooed on. That's what we're competing with."

"I'm not getting facial tattoos for this," Shirley tells her. "Or any tattoos anywhere anyone can see. And I'm definitely not showing off any tattoos anywhere anyone can't see to some sketchy bouncer."

"We got this," Britta assures her. "No tattoo required. Though, you know, it couldn't hurt."

"Tattoos hurt by definition."

"Whatever. We've got exactly what we need right here."

Annie frowns. "There aren't any costumes in the office--ooooh."

"Exactly." Britta leads them straight past the bored secretary, and throws open the office door. "Dean," she calls out, authoritatively. "We have a costume emergency."

The Dean spins his chair around to face them.

"My finest hour has arrived," he whispers.

-

"I do all of my designs myself, of course," the Dean tells them as they rush through the halls. "And I prefer to do the stitching myself, but sometimes where it's a rush job I have to hand off -- no, that's an ugly word -- _outsource_ some of the sewing. Ah! Here we go," and he opens the door into a bustling classroom Britta has never seen before.

There's a dozen heads bent over sewing machines; another half-dozen people clustered around dressmaker dummies in the back of the room. None of them so much as looks up from their work.

A short bald man in the front of the room spins around immediately, a wide and rather predatory smile lighting up his face when he sees who has entered. "Dean! How nice of you to grace my humble classroom. And you brought me some lovely guests. Are these new pupils for me?"

"No, no, we have a rather special job request," the Dean says, whispering this like it is supposed to be a secret. Britta is not sure from whom. From...her? From the students? Most likely, she thinks, the Dean just enjoys his little flights of fancy. "Professor Armin, this is Britta, Annie, and Shirley, they have a special project for your home economics class."

"Greendale has home ec?" Britta asks.

"What do you bet it counts as a science credit," Shirley grumbles under her breath.

"Mine is a rather...special...home ec class," Armin says, holding Britta's hand like he's thinking about kissing it. She snatches it away.

"Professor, the ladies need your class's help to make up some Star Trek uniforms," he says.

Britta hands Armin the internet photos they'd printed out in the Dean's office. Annie wanted an original series costume for "authenticity's sake", which Britta took to mean "I have good legs and I know it"; Shirley favored the mid-era TNG uniforms, but insisted on having an admiral's ranking ("I am an admiral!" "According to a guy who had us drive his boat around a parking lot." "That's more than most people can say!"), and Britta settled on one of the dark DS9 jumpsuits, since there was apparently no getting the other two to pick one era and stick to it; she figured they might as well aim for maximum representation.

The Dean had drawn some quick sketches to go along with each one, but as soon as they had the papers over to Armin he starts muttering and correcting things. Soon he and the Dean are bending their heads over the whiteboard, drawing and erasing and occasionally yelling for one of the people behind the sewing machines to come over and answer a question or bring a fabric swatch.

"Britta," Annie says, wide-eyed. "I'm pretty sure this is a sweatshop."

"Don't be dramatic," Britta says, though she's unnerved by one woman, in particular, whose face is a half an inch away from the quick blur of her machine's needle; Britta is pretty sure the woman hasn't blinked since they entered. "It's just, you know, home ec."

"Uh, 'special' home ec, and I don't know what that means but it can't be anything good," Shirley says.

"It probably, just, means that they all...smoke pot before class." That's the best Britta can do, okay, she'd found them their costumes, let someone _else_ do some of the work for a change.

"Ladies," Armin says, turning to them. "We can get you your costumes, no problem. My teacher's assistant here," he waves forward a boy who looks all of fourteen, "will take your measurements."

Annie yelps as the boy pulls a tape measure out of his apron pocket and holds it up against her shoulders. "Careful where your hands go, buster, I am watching you," she says, twisting around on herself to glare at him.

"Nothing to worry about," Armin tells them, waving a hand like he's fanning invisible cigar smoke away from himself. "We just want to make a top-quality product for you fine ladies. After all, any friend of the Dean's is a good customer."

"Great," Britta says, sounding grumpy against all of her best efforts not to. She's a good person; she believes that people all have inherent dignity; she likes Star Trek. Just, ugh, this guy rubs her the wrong way. It doesn't help that there's a teenager running a cord around her waist. "Thank you."

"No thanks necessary," Armin says. "Now, if we could discuss the matter of payment..."

Here the Dean pulls the professor aside and whispers frantically in his ear. Britta sags in relief, because it's time for her inseam and she didn't think she could handle a second unpleasantry on top of that.

"All right. For you ladies, no charge," Armin tells them.

Britta thinks the Dean has just called in some big favor, and she thinks even more that she doesn't want to know any more than that.

"Thank you," she says, more sincerely now that the assistant has moved on to Shirley.

"So for the three costumes, we could get you rough cuts in four days. You want all the fine work and the pips, call it five."

Britta catches Shirley and Annie's eyes anxiously. She knows what they're thinking -- that five days is the next Warp Core trivia night, and that doesn't leave them any time for anything to go wrong, and that considering the assistant is a teenage boy he's actual rather professional about not letting his hands wander.

"That's fine," Britta says. "But no later than that."

"Sure, of course," Armin says. "Wouldn't want to leave you high and dry in the industrial district, hm?"

Britta does her best casual shrug, like she doesn't know what he's talking about. Annie 'ughs', because she has this ridiculous idea that Britta's casual shrug is not casual. Obviously it is. It's called the _casual_ shrug.

"You sure you just want the Trek uniforms?" Armin asks them, as they're preparing to go. "I can draw you ladies up a real treat." He winks in a way that is probably illegal in several states, or at the very least prohibited by one of the smite-ier books of the Old Testament. Britta will have to consult with Shirley about that.

" _Just_ the three Star Trek uniforms, thank you," the Dean says, herding Britta and her friends out the door. Then he pauses. "Though, while you're at it, whip up an extra mini-skirt outfit. You have my sizes on file."

Out in the hall, the door safely closed behind them, Shirley and Annie do full-body shudders. "What is _with_ that guy?" Annie asks.

"Oh, well, he makes some extra money from private commissions, kicks some back to the school, I don't ask too many questions," the Dean says.

Shirley shakes her head. "The more I learn about this school, the less I want to learn."

"Welcome to higher education," Britta intones.

-

Professor Armin, whatever his failings of charisma and integrity, gets them their costumes early on the fifth day.

Britta kind of wishes he'd been late. When she opens the box and finds her jumpsuit there, science officer blue-green shoulders (because "I'm going to be a therapist" she had told Armin, arrogantly), she has an overwhelming gut-punch of _I don't deserve this nice thing_.

Okay, maybe it's just as well she has the whole day to deal with this, because she spends about five minutes shoving the costume and the box it came in as far under her bed as it'll go.

There's another five minutes of feeling queasy, and maybe she can cancel on the whole thing because hey, she's sick! Except she knows she isn't sick, only nervous, and she'll never be any less nervous until they get this over with, because it's not like Annie is going to ever let go of something once she's started. Britta's choices are (a) keep putting this off for longer and longer and getting more and more queasy about it, (b) run away from Greendale and be haunted forever by the knowledge that whatever horrible favor the Dean called in to get her this jumpsuit was wasted, or (c) suck it up, be a Human Being, and go kick ass in her new Star Trek uniform.

Always pick option (c). Duh-doy.

-

They meet at the Warp Core this time, because Annie was coming from some late-night class and Shirley was coming from home, and apparently they both actually trust Britta to show up on time.

Britta stands, chilly in her jumpsuit for all that it has long sleeves and pants, and waits for her teammates.

She gets a couple funny looks from people walking by, but tries to ignore them. Well, okay, she lingers close enough to hear them talking to the bouncer, and scrutinizes their costumes carefully, but tries to look like she's not doing it, and like she's not nervous.

Annie and Shirley appear in quick succession, Annie in yellow, Shirley in red, and yet they're both still Command _somehow_ , because Star Trek is a ridiculous nonsensical disaster, and millions of people love it anyway.

Britta feels her confidence return.

"Hey, ladies," she tells them. "Ready to kick some ass?"

"Hell yeah," Shirley says.

"I'm here to engage in a peaceful exchange of views that will hopefully prove productive," Annie says primly.

Britta and Shirley look at her.

"What? I mean, obviously I hope we win. Just, 'kick some ass' doesn't seem like a very Star Trek sentiment."

"Let's go," Britta says. "We're about to own Star Trek so hard that we can redefine it to include all the ass kicking we want."

They stride right up to the bouncer. He shows no signs of recognizing them, which could be either an insult to their persons or a compliment to their costumes; Britta tries to focus on the latter but mainly feels the former.

"Password?" he asks.

Annie shifts, but Britta smoothly answers "John de Lancie", and the bouncer nods and opens the door to let them in.

What, like she was going to spy on people approaching a secret underground club and _not_ listen in for any kind of code phrase?

The Warp Core, now that they've finally reached it, is all low-lighting and thrumming electro-techno music, except for the far end where a raised pavilion has been set up and lit, dramatically bright. That's where trivia must happen. Britta catches her teammates' eyes and nods them forward.

For about a half a minute, Britta thinks the Warp Core is actually pretty cool. People casting off the shackles of their corporate zombie lives and coming out to the middle of nowhere to embrace their hidden love of Star Trek, press warm body against warm body in the dark and really appreciate being alive...

By the time they're about halfway across the floor, she has a raging headache from the music, she's sick and tired of warm bodies trying to press up against her, and she feels like none of these asshats deserve to be here. They're all just treating Star Trek as an excuse to party and grope each other and listen to shitty, shitty electro-techno.

The fifth time she has to shove off someone offering to sell her "contraband Roman ale" with a wink and a handful of what is clearly ecstasy, Britta is fed up. Seriously, it doesn't even make sense; ale is a liquid, and the Romulans are way too uptight to drop ecstasy anyway, they're worse than Annie.

"Why doesn't this town have any _normal_ shady underground activities," Britta grumbles, "like meth labs, or cock fights?"

"Britta!" Annie cries out. Britta is 90% sure she thought the ecstasy tablets were some kind of candy, and vows to have a quick word with Shirley about keeping an eye on her. "I thought you were against animal cruelty!"

"I'm also against _me_ cruelty," she says, but halfheartedly. She's started to think that Spock and Picard and the other symbols of tolerance and acceptance she's come to know in the last two weeks would not really appreciate her thoughts about the other patrons of the Warp Core.

She's feeling defiant and humble and scared and determined by the time they reach the registration for trivia, which as it happens is exactly the right mood to have when the little troll running it gives them a bored look, points straight at her chest, and says, "There's a surcharge for late entry."

Britta grabs his finger and bends it upward. "I think you'll find it's been waived."

The little troll agrees, immediately. Sometimes Star Trek _does_ help people share a common vision for a common goal!

"Britta," Annie starts.

"What?" she asks innocently. "Is that not the Vulcan nerve pinch?"

"What are you doing here," calls a voice from behind Britta.

She turns, congratulating herself on seeming nonchalant, and finds Professor Cootiepie himself, flanked by half a dozen of their classmates from Science of Science Fiction. "Oh, hey there, Professor," she says. "We're just about to win trivia. You know, like we do all the time, because of how much we love Star Trek."

"It's more intimidating if you use fewer words," Shirley whispers in her ear.

"I know that!" Britta hisses back, blushing.

Crumpetbasket doesn't notice the whispering, as he is too busy staring at her in naked disbelief. "You're joking."

"I never joke," Britta says, going for haughty, but a couple of the guys from class titter at that, and Annie mutters something that sounds traitorously like 'that's for sure'. That's fine; Britta will deal with her mutiny later, after the external threat is neutralized.

Crustybucket is still not impressed. "You are the worst student I have ever seen," he says. "You can't possibly think you have a chance."

"Maybe I'm a bad student," Britta admits. "But you're an even worse teacher. And I'm about to teach you, so, so you'll be the bad student!"

"Seriously," Shirley whispers at her, "if you don't know what to say, just don't say anything and look at them like you're rabid."

Croutonbites stares down at Britta, and she curls her toes inside her boots and reminds herself that she is a doctor, dammit, not a pushover, (well, not a doctor, but still not a pushover), and she doesn't back down.

"You realize, entering last, you're the wild card team," he tells them. "You'll never make it to the final round. Victory is as good as mine."

He swans off, his students in tow, and Shirley yells after him, "An ass beating is as good as yours!", because some people are better at giving advice than taking it.

"He has a point," Annie worries, because once the pieces are in motion and Annie cannot control them, there is nothing left for her to do but worry. "We have to beat every single team we come up against. Even one failure and we're out."

"Don't worry," Britta says. "We're the scrappy underdogs. There's no _way_ we lose."

-

They fly through the first through rounds, easily; Annie is the master at buzzing in before the other team, Britta can usually beat the answers out of her head (mostly metaphorically, but she takes to lightly smacking her temple with the heel of her left hand on particularly challenging questions), and Shirley makes excellent use of her aforementioned rabid-glare to unnerve opponents and make them forget what they were saying.

Professor Crookedboard is good too, though, and his little minions don't get even a single question wrong. As the night continues, their two teams shoot up the boards, but Cocainebender's the returning champ, and even in her deepest denial Britta can tell the room is cheering for him.

She lets it fuel her, though. It's not like anyone has ever been rooting for Britta; if she was counting on cheering crowds she wouldn't have made it even as far as she has in life.

"All right, ladies," she says, hoping for charismatic or wise and very much afraid she's just settling around 'condescending'. "Last round. We're doing good so far. Annie, how are those thumbs?"

"Oh, you know," Annie gasps, trying to give her buzzer-abused hand a massage. "They haven't fallen off yet."

"Great. Shirley, the crazy eyes were faltering back there, I _need_ the crazy eyes."

"I'm giving them all I've got," Shirley snaps. "Some people just don't know to be afraid when they should."

For the second time, a cold, alien presence invades their space. "This is quite an -- interesting -- little demonstration you've put together," Professor Chauncybiggles says. "I do have to wonder why you all did so abysmally on my quiz since you do know, apparently, a little bit about Star Trek."

"A little bit?" Britta asks, voice dropping low in surprise. "We're tied with you, you filthy Tribble lover. We know as much as you know."

"You should pray that you do not." He looms over her. "I have been striving to dominate this field for too long. If you steal victory from me, I shall have to take something you love from you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Annie, damn her, sounds more nervous than tough.

"Simple. If you win, I will fail all of you."

Britta gapes; behind her, she hears Annie swoon and catch herself against the bar, and Shirley gnashing her teeth and muttering about hellfire.

"He can't do that!" Annie protests.

"Sure he can't," Britta says. The therapist part of her brain is yelling at her that sarcasm is a coping mechanism, but hey, she's never going to be a therapist if she never gets a damn science credit and graduates, right? "Just like he can't use a class to recruit students to help him win at secret illegal trivia night."

"But -- " Annie falters.

Shirley puts a hand on her shoulder, heavy with responsibility, and looks Britta in the eye. "It's the no-win scenario. We win, and we fail the class. We lose, and all of this was for nothing."

"And Professor Chopstickbundle gets away with treating his students like crap and his classes like a joke," Britta mumbles.

"You know, he might respect his students and his classes more if people made more of an effort to get his name right," Annie offers.

"Stop empathizing with the villain," Britta says. "It's time to Kobayashi Maru this son of a bitch."

Shirley smiles at her, sharp as a bat'leth.

Annie flounders for a moment, looking from the one to the other of them. "Are you sure?"

"Admiral's commands," Britta says, saluting Shirley, who nods gravely in return.

"At ease, commander," Shirley says. "Now go engage in a peaceful exchange of _kicking some ass_."

-

The resulting trivia match lives on in Warp Core history as an intense, bloody showdown -- or, at least, as intense and bloody as something can be when it consists of a dozen sweaty nerds shouting "The Orb of Contemplation!", or, "The USS Reliant," or, "Oh, oh -- ugh, Lieutenant Reginald Barclay!" at each other.

They say it came down to a tie, right at the end, with one final question left.

They say that the brilliant blonde commander, who had been so ferociously leading her heretofore-unknown team, hesitated, for a second, and looked her opponent in the eye.

They say that there was a tremendous welling of compassion, in her eyes, for just a moment, before she buzzed in and screamed, "DC Fontana, motherfucker!"

They say that the strange women bought drinks for everyone, after they were crowned the winners; that last part is a lie, though.

They did do a little crowd surfing, but only a very little, because _hands_ , strange hands, everywhere.

-

"Well, now I can put 'Biggest Star Trek Nerd in the County' on my transcript," Britta says as they trudge away from Warp Core. She isn't sure if her laugh is self-deprecating or not. Maybe, for tonight, she can just laugh and worry about what it means tomorrow.

"Ought to get something out of all of this," Shirley says. "Besides a dress you can wear if you ever need to be twins with the Dean, that is."

"I like my dress," Annie says, mild for once. "I feel cute and confident in it, who says miniskirts are bad for you?"

"I dunno," Britta says. The stars look blurry from down on the ground. "Somebody. Screw them."

"Yeah. Screw everybody," Annie says.

"Now what?" Shirley asks.

"I...guess we go back to Greendale," Britta says. "Maybe we can drop Countrybarrel's class before he can fail us."

"That leaves us in the same place we started from, though," Annie points out.

Britta shrugs. "You know, we make a pretty good team. We can always take Women's Laser's next semester."

And they walked off, into the dark, in search of the next adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Calliatra, my heart sang when I saw your letter asking for (1) Britta being good at things & (2) Star Trek. I have no idea if this is what you wanted or had in mind, at all, but I'm grateful for the opportunity to write it.
> 
> My apologies to Benedict Cumberbatch, for butchering his name (though no worse than most), and to Armin Shimerman, for dragging his name through the mud. Obviously Professor Armin is based on Quark the character, not his actor, but I didn't think I could get away with a "Professor Quark".
> 
> If you like this fic, you can [reblog it on tumblr](http://toast-the-unknowing.tumblr.com/post/124341897156/the-science-of-science-fiction-shinealightonme).


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